Ancient Fish Traps

Finally took advantage of a low tide to scramble over the rocks to get to the fish traps below the Spring Tavern.

This is the photo I took earlier the same day.  It's somewhat ironic, that this ancient technology is framed by modern power line.

Fish traps were often built at the mouths of rivers.  The Clallam River, now that folks have stopped messing with it, is gradually working its mouth westward along the shore.  Could it be heading back to an old mouth that came out across the fish traps?  It's just now uncovered a set of big rocks that have been under a sand ridge for decades.

The right-hand trap is rather shallow, and quite weedy.  The left-hand one, however, is clean, knee to thigh deep, with a bed of clean sand.  There were no fish in either of them.  If they were closed off, they wouldn't threaten any fish that were ever trapped in them, because they're full of water, even at low tide, and the water is deep enough in the left one to remain cool between tides.  The left one would be rather delightful as a wading/swimming pool for the little kids.

However, they're really only accessible, at least easily, by canoe, or down a rock slide toward Sekiu.  Over there is what appears to be another fish trap, but with larger boulders.  The ones around the Spring traps look as though five to six people could have moved them, using fulcrum points and small logs.  It's definitely a community, or CSDI, project (Chief Said Do It).

I'm sorry, I'm hanging around too many First Nations folks up here, and their sense of humor is rubbing off on me.  Which is kind of like my Dad's, who grew up in Colorado, and picked it up there.   As in:

What did Custer say when he saw all those Indians coming around the bend at the little Big Horn?

"What's wrong with them?  They were all right at the dance last night."

Old River Bed, Old Glass

This piece of old glass came out of the ground when the Clallam River ran through an older mouth.  

Top of a lamp, perhaps?  From the old cabins or houses (differing reports) that used to stand on the river?  All that remains of them is the occasional worn brick.  Dan and I found all of the old rusted pipe and pulled the last of it out at least three years ago.  This year we dragged out and dumped the old rusted compressor.

One of our very nice bartenders at the Clallam Bay Inn, to whom we showed the piece our way back from the beach, said I should post it. 

Yesterday we found a piece of an old flivver tire, but in condition not so good.

Deer tracks on the beach.  Out for the morning wander, probably to lick up salt.  Or like us, just to enjoy the sunshine and mess around buy the river.  Wild animals do what we were all meant to do: eat, sleep, enjoy themselves and try to stay out of trouble.

Speaking of trouble, yesterday I had my binoculars trained on a river otter, that was happily gobbling and throwing around chunks of fish.  It suddenly stared at me, then - and there's no other way to describe this -- did a double-take and ducked under water, as my tiny view filled up with adult bald eagle.  The eagles are hatching chicks right now, and no doubt it would have taken fish or otter, whichever course it could have pulled onto the table.

Day before yesterday, we walked in a wide arc around a gull.  It was settled down on the sand in the chill mist.  It looked sick or old.  But it was out of the wind; any shelter, no matter how low or inconsiderable, makes a huge difference when you have no place else to go.
 

Yesterday we found its dismembered and plucked body.  Today I picked up one of its wings and placed it in a tangle of dried roots, out of the sand, in the wind where it belonged.

 

The Clallam River changed its course this winter, back to its original bed, now that people have stopped trying to open it too early with bulldozers.  Now most of the really nice sand beach is on our side of the river during the winter.

That's Vancouver Island beyond the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and Bear Kill Ridge and Slip Point on the right.  Or Radio ridge, because of the Coast Guard and Verizon towers.  Every generation has its own names; we call Mussolini Head, on the stony beach around the ridge, "Octopus Rock."

Dan and our Junk Tree.  We drag heavier items to this buried tree, by the end of the closed bridge (right).  When the bridge is opened every spring by the Lion's Club, the heavy garbage is dragged to the dumpster in the park.  Usually the Lion's Club beats us to it.  Bless their souls.

 CLAMS AND OIL LAMP - STUFF FROM THE BEACH

We found an oil lamp on the beach.

There are a lot of rocks with holes in them, from where pebbles have been worn out of the hard bedrock.  This one had a perfect hollow connected to a hole that allowed the use of a cotton wick.  The first photo shows the rock by itself, with the 1/2-teaspoon of oil it can hold.  I think the Clallam people who had their village on this beach here used stone oil lamps with seal or bear oil; who knows if this is a worn-down remnant of someone's household lamp?   I pretend it is, without making any historical claims.  We keep the beach clean; it's the least we can do.

 

This is the lamp propped upright by another pebble in a Pyrex bowl, filled with plain vegetable oil.  The bowl has a delicate pattern around the rim, which projects this beautiful little sunburst.  It uses about a quarter-inch of oil in 12 hours.

 

This basket of shells helps us identify different species.  From left to right, they're: Eastern Softshell, Cockle, Native and Butter.  Butter clams hold onto Red Tide toxins for two years, so it's important to know which is which. 

CHICKENS AND SKIN MONKEYS

So scared the chickens were not going to be all right in the bitter cold -- but they're out there eating popcorn for a treat & drinking the freshly-replaced water AM & PM, & still laying. The crows insist on their own big bowl of popcorn too, and swear at me if they don't get it.  Whadaya gonna do?  Now I'm a bird flunky as well as a cat servant.

I was worried about the poor cold chickens and was trying to figure out how to warm them, when I realized if I did, they'd lose their natural resistance to cold.  It's like losing your night purple after using a light in the dark.  The best cure for cold for outside animals is lots and lots of good food, so they can lay on lots of fat.

Wild animals all have houses; their own tough skins. WE lived in deserts, lost all our hair, had to wear clothes against the sun.  It must explain why nudity is a sin in the middle-eastern religions; it's DANGEROUS to run around naked in equatorial deserts.

The more "purebred" Makah up here run around in sleeveless t-shirts on miserable, cold, rainy days.  It's the 70-degree days in summer that make these big guys miserable.

People have asked me, "What about coyotes?"  Have you never heard of the miracle of chicken wire? The local Cooper's Hawk skidded to a hover over the cage and we pointed and laughed; you've never seen a hawk drool.  This is the same bird that got into a neighbor's cage and ripped the head off a chicken.  She'd left a hole the size of a football in the chicken wire.  

If we're going to raise farm animals near predators, we have to be aware of these animals' versatility.  In a film taken with a camera on the back of birds of prey, we see what the Cooper's largest relative -- the goshawk -- does with small spaces at speed (there's an ad, but it only lasts a few seconds).  Makes me wonder if people who have been animating movies about flying on dragons haven't referred to the real thing.

Remember, if a predator gets your domestics, it's your fault.  Don't think you can ultimately solve it by killing stuff; everybody doing that has decimated natural animal populations.  And if you're raising stuff to sell to eat and taking shortcuts by killing wildlife -- what ELSE won't you take a shortcut with?  And why should I buy your stuff?

TRACKING FOR LAZY PEOPLE

On our long beach walk today, found two sets of deer prints wandering in the sand.  Followed them to a broken bank, which is where I wanted to go anyway as the easiest way to get to the marsh and walk over to see how deep the ford in the river is.  Or what looked like a ford, opposite what might be the very rotten remains of the old wooden bridge.

After discovering the ford was quite deep, and that a young Douglas Fir was using one of the old bridge posts as a nurse log, I continued along the river shore, and noticed the deer prints continuing ahead of me.  Reaching the end of the mini-peninsula in the river, I started back up what I thought would be the easiest way -- and looked into the face of the deer.  Who seemed to say, "So, now what?"

After saying "Hi there!" I turned around and headed back through the underbrush and trees, picking the easiest trail.  Or as easy as it gets, ducking through Devil's club and brambles.  Upon reaching the other side of the peninsula, I spotted what looked like an easy break in the brambles that would allow me to scramble back down the cliff.  There I found another broken bank -- and at the bottom, imprinted in the mud of the lagoon shore, more deer prints.  

Evidently people and deer all go along the lines of least resistance.

A Cooper's hawk leapt into the air ahead of me, with what looked like a rat in its claws.  We'd seen a stripped crow's wing on the beach earlier this week.  More bloody bones on the sand told us the hawk had been eating well.

TYPOES AND COWBOYS

This is what a typo in a browser URL can lead to: crazies in the woods.

Makin' money and acting nuts in the woods the GREEN way.  Your comments (and laughter) welcome.

If anybody had any brains they'd harvest the knotweed, organize with Ric Polumbo in Clallam Bay to take it to Seattle with his fish, and make a mint selling Mountain Vegetables to the Japanese restaurant and overseas trade.

They gotta do SOMETHING to stave off the developers and get the cancer chemicals out of the water.

TOO MUCH TECHNO-HICK

Okay, this may seem too much in my playing pioneer, but:

1.  It's not as hard as it sounds.

2.  It's incredibly cheap.

3.  It gets rid of all that plastic you have to pay so much to dispose of in packaging.

4.  Clothes come out soft and sweet and -- if you mix 3/4 cup soap gel with a quart of water, you get a dish-soap that will soak the crap off anything.  No more scrubbing ANYTHING.  

5.  It makes a helluva lot of soap out of about a cup and a 1/2 of ingredients.  Double it and don't make soap for a month.

Those of you with sensitivities in you or animals may want to try it.  It's really super.

Homemade Laundry Soap

1/3 bar Fels Naptha or other type of soap, as listed above

½ cup washing soda

½ cup borax powder 

~You will also need a small bucket, about 2 gallon size~

Grate the soap and put it in a sauce pan.  Add 6 cups water and heat it until the soap melts.  Add the washing soda and the borax and stir until it is dissolved.  Remove from heat.  Pour 4 cups hot water into the bucket.   Now add your soap mixture and stir.  Now add 1 gallon plus 6 cups of water and stir.  Let the soap sit for about 24 hours and it will gel.  You use ½ cup per load.

GOING POSTAL

 

At least the mail isn't in a pile in the woods.  YET.  I know somebody who had that one.

We've got a situation up here, where occasionally the mail goes insane.  I've got all my billing on email notification and payment now, which loses the post office more money, but whadaya gonna do?

Some neighbors have solved the problem by transferring to another post office in another town, but we really don't need to lose the post office here, especially for people without vehicles.

Rather than transferring your accounts to the other town, call the USPS and start a case file on lost mail, bills and/or medication.  The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

The phone number is: 
Call 1-800-ASK-USPS®
(1-800-275-8777)
M-F - 8:00am-8:30pm ET
Sat - 8:00am-6:00pm ET
Sunday - Closed

Or go to the site.

ELEPHANT SEAL MOULTING SEASON

Yearling elephant seal on the Clallam Bay Beach.  Gender unknown.

They were hunted down to about 100 individuals, according to the Marine Mammal Stranding System station in Joyce.  They're in recovery, but they're very inbred.

So I waited until it slid back down off the beach this morning before posting this.  First elephant seal I've ever seen in the wild.

HOW WE ALL USED TO BE

Up here is seeming more and more as I read accounts of America, at least as viewed by its citizens, in 1910.  America, in its own opinion, was still young and vibrant and faultless, and God had put all those trees and animals here to harvest for his children's good.  The main newspaper has a Women's Section; one almost expects the people being interviewed to wear daytime corsets and picture hats.

John Aubrey in his Brief Lives writes, "My grandfather Lyte told me that at one Lord Majors shew there was the Representation of the Creation of the World, and writt underneath AND ALL FOR MAN." (sic)

At a rather nice little pastry shop in Forks (from the North, take the first right after the True Value) , I was having fun with a tiny blackberry cheesecake and a rather ferocious cup of coffee, and the amusing gentleman who hangs out helping with the bread was discussing the locals ("gossiping," is, I believe, the correct term among those of us who practice the art).  He complained that The Park (Olympic Peninsula National Park) was denying The People their rights on the land.  To paraphrase the conversation:

"When these parks were established, it was for the People."

I answered, "Well, maybe it's time we rethink how we view what's left of our wild lands.  We'll be extinct someday, especially at the rate we're going, and these creatures need a refuge until we're gone.  Maybe it's time we lock up this land and stay out of it, so these creatures can survive.  We at least owe them that."

He didn't say a lot after that.  He seemed to be thinking.  I can't tell if he was upset, weighing the idea, reviewing the future, or all of it at once.  I'd had too much rather good coffee; what did I know?

I tend to think about whether there's enough for everybody, including my fellow creatures, before I start grabbing.  I've heard a couple of kids who've begun hunting deer -- hopefully to provide food, and not in the spirit of triumphalist conquest over nature -- described as "killing machines."  I've seen men strip the fillets off live fish and throw the carcasses back in the water to swim away.  

The animals die daily so we can live; how did we lose the ability to respect them?  We've stolen a phrase for our religion, placing to the credit of of one of our mythological characters the idea that "He died so we can live." The poor plantation and scrubland that exists outside the parks is even despised by the people who go in after the deer.  One man sneered, "I hate trees."

How do we hate the lungs of the planet?  How do we hate that which helps us survive every day, just because it gets in our way?  When did the earth and what's on it become The Enemy?  Yes, I know the arguments about older religions that were plugged into our beliefs, and the dangerous belief that all is either evil or good.  How long are we going to fall for that?

Recently an animal was treated as a toy or a piece of wood, and I had to get involved.  I have my own life; isn't it enough that I have to rescue other people's cats when they wander off on the next stage of their lives, because it's not convenient any more?  I was told that the person who had obtained the animal, a young puppy, and left him tied with a wire out in the freezing cold, with inadequate shelter and frozen water, had to deal with a family emergency.  

"People come first," was the reason.

Isn't that exactly what's gotten us into the mess we're in on this planet?  The local people do not know what they've got -- what scraps and evidences of the original wealth that was here -- and they're just throwing it away with both hands.  They despise cities, and yet they seem to be going right down the same road they claim they want to avoid.  They have a golden place, here -- or at least the broken remnants of one -- with capability to restore it to the wonder it was, at least in part, or at least to prepare in their lifetime for the future, and all they care about is whether they can kill an elk with a heavy rack or if the Seahawks win.  They don't seem to worry that any timber industry is dumping toxins into the water, even as the cancer rates up here sky-rocket.  

In strictly economic terms, they have the opportunity to build excellent nature tourism, including the fact that the area has been named an Audubon area.  Instead, they want to look back to 1910, and the days when they could kill all the fish they wanted,  Now they squabble over what remains, even blaming seals and eagles for what they've done themselves; nobody up here seems to have a mirror.  As Vancouver Island begins to tap the big-leaf maples for syrup -- a permanent forest-products industry -- the local logging companies are going after those same trees like piranhas.  It almost seems like a pattern; anything that provide the local population with an alternate, and permanent, livelihood, is taken out of the way as quickly as possible.  This isn't a professional study; it just seems to happen every time.  

One of the logging companies decided the Scenic Byway on Highway 112 was an opportunity to show Dem City Folks how a working forest looks.  Yeah, that's a really effective conversion tool, isn't it?  My father's prejudice as a long-haul trucker may be coming into effect in me, here.  But I really should have gotten a photograph of the giant tree a couple of the local maroons stole out of an old-growth area so they could be on Axmen, as though the television producers weren't going to figure out they were dealing with theft.  But none of this attitude toward the local life is new; they have an historical culture-hero up here, who supposedly went out and set up a life as an independent man of the forest -- but what he was really doing was living on predator bounties, until he'd cleared out as many of the local cougars as he could get his paws on.

A local farmer continued that attitude, but he had help.  Three young cougars came poking onto his land and were trapped in boxes.  Cougars wander more than they should, here, as clear-cuts drive them out of their habitat and into local neighborhoods, always with the death of the cougar as the result, as the locals panic (hell, they panic over and face off with rutting territorial mountain goats, but that's another story).  A "forest ranger," as he said, told him the cougars couldn't survive if they were shipped elsewhere, so the three animals were shot in their trap-box and buried.  There are options for other possibilities; why didn't that forest ranger make the effort?  Has he fallen victim to the local feeling of conquest, with its adjunct, helplessness and fear in the face of nature?  Who knows?

I shouldn't talk about the people up here as though they were born in the Pacific Northwest, as I was.  A lot of them are from the midwest and other points east.  Whenever they can't stand the rain, they head for the desert.  

Maybe they can leave the desert where it is, and go visit it when they need it, and not try to bring it here? 

The Polar Bear Plunge, Jan 1, 2011, Lake Pleasant, Olympic Peninsula, Washington State.

Heather Wasankari, whom her mother is calling "Chicken Heather!" had every excuse for only running in to her hips.  She has about as much meat on her as a chopstick. She's part Apache; not exactly a people evolved for plunging out of a bitter wind into near-freezing water on a mid-winter day.

I made the mistake of telling Heather we'd do this about three months ago.  Never promise a kid something you don't mean to carry out, because they'll remember and hold you to it.  Anyway, we got ourselves all whipped up for this over several Facebook exchanges, and then we went and did it!

I didn't hang around for a photo lineup once I had the robe off; I just led the charge into that awful liquid burn.  Heather's friend Alyssa grabbed her and dragged her in.  It took me a week to recover from the cold; I couldn't get my core temperature up at all.

Wish I'd taken the girls back on my errands to Forks; when there, I kept running into kids and adults who'd done this insane thing, and we were all like a bunch of little veterans, high-fiving and exulting over this act of insanity.

ANIMAL ABUSE OUT IN THE BOONIES

I wonder if it's like the murder described by Doyle; more of it happens because they know they're not being watched. 

Nothing like Facebook to end THAT.  Yes, I'm using a Facebook thread like a forum.

  

It's like the slave-catchers happily running north after that evil Fugitive Slave law, and running into posters with their faces on them and pointing crowds, then running back to the South with their tails between their legs.  

Us nice people are sick and tired of abuse and stupidity -- AND having to clean up the messes.  The weird thing is, bad people HATE to have their badness pointed out.  Perhaps there is a core of good there, that knows better?  As a Nice Person, I can only hope.

THE TREES ARE SMARTER

Lord, sometimes living in the United States of Yokeldom.....

Somebody at either the Clallam Bay or Port Angeles post office picked out three bills from our mail and didn't deliver them.

That's right -- lifted three bills from three different businesses.  Oh, ha ha, let's play with somebody's business mail, shall we?

Right now I'm hitting the USPS main site to "resolve" the problem.  On one hand, the Clallam Bay post office was screwing up our mail back in October, 2005.  This time, since August 2010, we were getting all kinds of mail from other people.  So if any of you are missing bills, you want to be asking the post office where they went.  I know I've seen bills lying on the ground up here; did somebody else get it and just throw it away?

I can tell one of you that I know all about your medical bill at the Forks Hospital.  Opening mail -- as we all do, assuming efficiency -- I found a bill. Examining it, wondering what this was about and why it was over-due, I checked the name.  OOPS.  NOT OUR MAIL.  Again.  I quickly taped the envelope back up in its envelope and wrote "SORRY!" on it.  So one of you up here in Clallam Bay, I know how much you haven't paid and for how long.  Ask the Post Office about that.  I hope you got your mail.  And your bill.

Now, it may be the Port Angeles office that was screwing up, instead.  So one of the two was flipping people's bills around to the wrong parties.  Since we had three bills go missing, I wonder if this was really an accident?  Was somebody at the post office -- well -- going postal?

No wonder so many people hate trees up here.  The trees are smarter.

(Note:  in some places in the old Soviet Union, the mail isn't being delivered, or, if it's making it to post offices, it's just piling up.  The penny post was instituted in Great Britain in 1608; has the post office had its run?  Has email and the internet knocked the postal service off its pins?  Will all packages go through FedEx and UPS -- and any documents through the private document companies whose vans I've recently seen in town?  Nothing lasts forever -- perhaps the post office is being pushed to the edge of the cliff?)

Chicken Report

Moved the chicken tractor this morning, to a more sunny location, because their water was skinned over with ice last night.

Red, who has been twice caught under the slats in a move, decided to get up in the nesting box and ride.

They've started laying again -- two eggs yesterday.

WHERE ONLY MAN IS VILE

Ah, the joy of living in rural areas.  The latest human nastiness is a woman who, in spelling her name for a newspaper cut line, told me, "It's German.  I have to tell people that, because they want to spell it like some Hispanic crap."

BUT -- on the other hand, nature is lovely.  After a hard week, we grabbed the first lovely day to take a long walk on the beach and see where the river mouth had opened up a new island, and almost closed the old river, so we could get to the island.

We followed a gray whale down the beach as it fed among the buffelheads, in the deep water off the steep beach, only about 20 feet from us.  We listened to a blue heron cuss us out, and viewed harlequin ducks and loons.

The humans can't last forever; most diseases don't.

Soybean City (Who needs a goat?)

Betsy the woodstove (named after my Dad's green dodge coupe in the '50's) hard at work on tofu, soymilk and sea salt.

No, we don't let all that crap stay on her. She gets blacked every couple of months, and wiped down when she's cold.

I've never been able to make really good tofu before I began making my own sea-salt.  See how nicely it's curdling?  It's supposed to look like Clouds In A Golden Sky, and it does.

All the soy cooking isn't that difficult.  I make the tofu and the soy out of  one batch of beans. The tofu is made with the first, rich wash of ground soybeans; the soymilk is made with the second. 

I'm an insomniac, but a cup of soymilk whenever I can't sleep sends me right off.

The ground lees go partially into baking, part to the hens, who gobble the white lumps, rich in calcium and protein, like candy.

The yellow whey goes into the dishwater, where it cuts grease, and some is retained for shampoo. 

A bag of soybeans is about $25.00 and makes gallons of tofu and soymilk. Without being butted or having to put netting around all the trees.

BATTEN DOWN THE CHICKENS

Second day of the November storm; snow is six inches and rising. We evidently have Alaska's winter, and they have ours.  Oh the fascination of being on the Great Pacific Circling Current.

(right) Tarps on chicken tractor, to keep them out of direct wind. So far, they're surviving the freezing temperatures.

Placed a Dutch oven full of water in the nesting area.  Pour boiling water into it twice a day.  First time I did it, heard a chicken squawk.  But they're not stupid, or followers like sheep -- once is enough.

Made them suet cakes to go with their feed.  Gonna fatten 'em up for spring through autumn laying.

During the 2008 blizzard, Jim the cat was forced to live outside by his original owners.  This is him (right) going outside for a bit of a run, but keeping an ear cocked for when we call him.  No more sleeping on a damp carpet under a porch for HIM.

Elk Heart

Our neighbor called and said her husband and his hunting partner had taken two elk, and did I want a heart?  DID I?  Rinsed off the beautiful red blood, sharpened up the ulu knife, slit out the tubes, put the heart on braise in the Dutch oven and took the discard to the beach (don't want to give eagles the idea they eat in this yard, picked up some water for sea salt while I was there). Pretty piece of meat, Ja?

The seagulls thought so!

Oh, and turned the heart into a lovely terrine.  Cats like it too!  Yes, we share.

MAU-MAUING THE NEW GUY

The edited and mostly unscrambled version of an email conversation.

D = me. L = the other guy.

L: I just bought 5 acres of timberland from Uncle Ray at the lake end of Hoko Ozette road, and I'll be been looking for people who blog about being mossbacks and living in Sekiu and Clallam Bay. (Or West Clallam Bay and Clallam Bay if you are a purist I suppose.)

D: (This next comment makes me think about how the foreign service has managed to get us into a situation of having our boobs groped at airport security. But I was nice and didn't say anything, because we all live at our own little table at the comicon and don't much look across to the other tables.)

L: I work for you overseas in the Foreign Service and will retire there in 20 years or so. Trying, as I am deep in the clutches of middle age, to start planning ahead I wanted to buy someplace to live long before I actually needed it. So the reason specific reason I'm writing is that I want to hire someone to keep an eye on my land from time to time, act as my agent as it were. I'm thinking I could paypal someone 50 dollars a month to walk the land every once and a while, keep me up to date on doins in the neighborhood. Do you know some high school student who might be interested in being an ad hoc forest ranger? I'd like someone who was going to be around for 20 years, I'm a big fan of continuity.

D: Put it in the Forks Forum want ads: editor@forksforum.com or -- even better -- post a short, clear note on the bulletin board at the Sunset West Co-Op in Clallam Bay (that little yellow building next to Gary's boat corral).

D: I'm reading the Lake Ozette Sockeye recovery plan which sounds like it might impact the land I bought since I'm not far from Umbrella creek.

D: If it does, go along with it. You want to help sockeye recover, right?  If it's just woods, why do you need somebody to bother it? It can pretty much take care of itself. Hell, for $50.00 a month, I could drive by it once or twice a month and make sure the "No hunting" signs are up. Other than that, there's not much to do. Land left hands off for 20 years is the best thing to do to it. You could have some nice trees started and the creeks beginning to clean out nicely.

Windstorms and fires are natural. Leave it alone and let it breathe, and let yourself relax. If it all burns down I would reseed. If you just want pictures to dream on, that's another thing. Well, forest takes care of itself. If it's major, keep an eye on http://www.forksforum.com That should do it.

L: And of course I want to support the neighborhood and be seen as a contributor and a member of the community and not some carpetbagger who shops only at costco and never uses the local businesses.

D: Us white people are all carpet-baggers on this continent, anyway, so relax. They stopped arguing about if their ancestors got here in 1889 or 1949 when I said, "Don't do that in front of the Indians, will ya? It makes us look like idiots." Go to Makah Days and have fun: http://www.makah.com

L: I have been to the Makah rez several times and have always liked the people I met there. I am quite pleased that they didn't want to go the casino route and do their best to live the way they want to as opposed to how they should. Never made it to Makah days, at least not yet.

D: You would love the REAL Indian Gambling; slahal. Well, if you're crazy like we are. Dan's 1/16th Wyandotte, so maybe it's genetic.

L: Even though we won't be there very much, we are going to get a family membership to the co-op.

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D: You don't need a membership. Everybody just happily buys there. I just keep an account, throwing $50.00 in every once in a while.

D: Before you start whacking down houses, check out http://www.garbagewarrior.com Having your place declared a wildlife sanctuary can take advantage of the fact that up here is on the Audubon Birdwalk maps. Old-growth trees attract rare birds. Put in a light yurt or tent area and charge birdwatchers to visit.

L: I don't think a small yurt or a tent will work, at least not in 20 years, I'l be old and broken down by then, I'll need something to keep my walker out of the mud, and it was all clear cut twenty years ago, so sadly there is no old growth. If I find there is there is no way I'll be touching it.

D: Nice ones. http://www.yurts.com/?gclid=CJX7gvmiraUCFRhCgwod2BlOZw

D: You could start your own stream by shaping a collection area and delicately running it down toward the other stream. Who knows? Have some sockeye come visit YOUR stream, too! Note: if your trees and ferns are big and wet, salmon eggs can literally stay damp in a "dried-up" streambed until the autumn rains set in. Clallam County is BIG on projects like this -- they give grant money!

L: There is supposed to be a wash or a gulley that may be a stream in the winter time, that is one of the big questions I have when I come out. Good idea about the grant money, although I don't really care about that part. Once I know where everything is, the idea of growing a stream, even a winter only stream, is fabulous, thanks for the tip!

D: I know an older guy here just dug a hole in the ground, and dips up the clear, tannic water for his uses. He's a kind of happy-in-a-lean-to kinda guy, though.

L: I'm not sure what we will do for water and power, my hope is that in 20 years solar will have improved that we will not need the grid, and we will either drill a well or go with a catchment system. But as I said, I'm hoping home building improves in the next 20 years.

D: WATER? You can dig your own rainwater collection pond. Solar and wind will pump you power -- and the PUD is very helpful with that, as well as with local grants and things. Build your own, simple and pure and be sure to put in your own greenhouse (and chicken run -- why tempt the bobcats?).

D: And of course I'd love to start making friends with people in the area now. I'm only up to July 2004 in your Clallam blog, but I loved the idea of Clallam/Sekiu being a designated artists community. And of course now I have an overwhelming urge to get the complete works of Barr for my library.

D: Cool! Up here nobody much respects me as an artist or writer -- they're into rural galleries and local histories, from the 1950's, not publishing or comics. I'm known as The Newspaper Lady (The kids yell, "Hi, Newspaper Lady!"), the freelance reporter from the PDN and the Forks Forum.

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L: Wait, I'm confused, did you go there to get away from the fans or to weed out the less enthusiastic ones and make them interns? Given your track record I think a lot of people could benefit from interning with you.

D: Don't ask me. I'm not in control of the little freak show that is my life. And I don't need me any more interns -- I need somebody to hire me to TEACH. EVERYBODY wants what I have for FREE.

L: I read your PDN pieces, the gunfight was quite exciting, shotguns and body armor, oh my! But why are so many PDN story paragraphs one short sentence? I have not read any of the Forks pieces, I can't seem to find a search field!

D: Don't ask me. It's what they do. My pieces are that awful Associated Press style Hemingway was forced to write in, and that has tainted today's literature so badly. My newsy stories I like are at: http://contributor.yahoo.com/user/112562/donna_barr.html OOH, I see it's part of Yahoo now.

L: Hope the windstorm did not treat you too harshly, look forward to hearing from you!

D: Windstorm? What windstorm? After the typhoon and 95 mph winds a few years ago, this was just rain gusts. I'm not kidding; since then, if it's not 85 mph, nobody up here notices.

D: If I didn't know tai-chi, I'd have been tossed in the river while trying to get storm shots for the paper.

L: I will look into chicken tractors in about 19 years when I'm kitting the place out, although the men in my family have a genetic fear of chickens, so I may leave that to the wife.

D: You know, our neighbor's afraid of birds! I wonder if that's because their ancestors ate so many of our ancestors.

D: Well, enjoy the new place -- put in bee hives! Plenty of beekeepers up here, working with the local feral Russian bees, including my try at them (neighborhood was too small).

D: Oh, and solar works up here. http://www.garbagewarrior.com The dvd is in the library.

L: Feral Russian bees? What the heck? The bee hives are a good idea, but would I have to care for them in the intervening 20 years or should I wait? Interesting idea, and the wife wants a lot of plants and flowers and goddess knows the world needs more beehives. Do you know any beekeepers in the area you can refer me to?

D: Look up Tim van Ripper in the phone book. He has all the connections. If I were you, I'd put out some clean second-hand hives and ignore them. You'll need one of these when you get here too (co-op wants EGGS): http://www.chickentractor.com

D: But PLEASE remember you have to make your life around the local bears and cougars. Don't be the people who harass the rutting or territorial animals, get a bit hurt and then have to kill the animal. It's their home and they're COOL (A bit of solar electric fence works nice on bears). Cougars: don't build weak fences and watch out if an idiot logging company clear-cuts next to you -- it drives out the resident cougar and all hell breaks loose. But toilet paper must be cheap, you know (feh).

L:Well, as long as the rutting and territorial animals respect my territory as well, we will be cool.

D: When you move in up here, you're moving into THEIR homes and territories. You need to keep your domestic animals protected. It's not a city neighborhood.  When the golden eagles come in we all put away small dogs and cats. If a cougar comes through, same, but also kids and all food. They go away when they find there's no food (tho' one guy had one sleeping on his back porch after getting a catfood feed). The deer EAT here; it's THEIR livelihood. You have to put up a little greenhouse with a top -- easier to garden, anyway. The wet winter/dry summer make gardening very hard. Check out: http://www.squarefootgardening.com/

(L made a comment about goats in rut, here, after having read a PDN story about a goat who took out a hiker.)

D: The dork who got killed by the mountains goats sent the two women down the trail -- and then, with his predator-set eyes (HELLO? Threaten the females and kids??). CAME BACK TO CHALLENGE THE GOAT. WTF? Talk about the Darwin award. Only stupid I-Am-God-It-Was-All-Made-For-Me people run into trouble with the wildlife up here. Our neighbors were terrified when they found they'd bought a place with major predators on the ridge behind them until I 'splained how we live with them. They're fine, now! They think it's cool.

L: I'm hoping no one ever cuts the land around me, but sadly that is out of my control. If I ever see it come up for sale and I have the money I'm snapping it up. Except maybe the gravel pit just west of me.

D: The gravel pit can recover, too.

November Harvest, 2010

Jerusalem Artichokes (left) and assorted potato varieties (right), including the long Ozette heritage potato (GET your mind back where it belongs!).

POKE THE BIRD

Here there's a big rock around that headland that BELONGS to a ruby-crowned kinglet.  There's a tree near the river that belongs to another one.  You take your life in your hands (laughing yourself to death) if you get near either.

Of course, touching the rock and leering, "Oh, is this YOUR rock?  And here?  And HERE?" can't help.  I thought the furious little bead of feathers was going to explode from pure indignation.

Teasing wildlife.  We're going to hell.

SURFING FOR CRAZY PEOPLE

On the Clallam Bay Beach (left).  There are ROCKS out there! 

Can you see the REALLY CRAZY guys out past the Slip Point Reef? (right)

Very high tides brought out the Rare Breed Surfers: they keep this up and they'll be even RARER.

But don't they make you want to learn to surf?  It looks like killer fun!

The Hick in Techo-Hick

 The morning's work, clockwise from upper left:

Frying crackers

Turnip greens (picked from the garden)

Jerusalem artichokes (ditto)

Homemade cheese ravioli

Homemade soymilk (in process).

Upper right: what's left of the peanut-butter cookies, most of which went to the Hallowe'en party last night.

Know how peanut-butter cookies are always too dry and easy to burn?  Especially if using white sugar?  Accidentally discovered how to make them tender and chewy: soak the sugar overnight in just enough water to make a paste.  Try it -- it's a whole 'nother cookie. I don't know if you need to soak brown sugar, but if white sugar is all you have, this works.  Hm.  Maybe add a little molasses to the white sugar while soaking?

The turnip greens and artichokes will go with rice, probably for tomorrow, but they need to be cooked today, because they're THERE.

Got too busy, let the mushrooms we'd picked spoil in the 'fridge.  From now on, the rule of hunter/gatherer is:  eat in season, eat when found (or prepare for the next day).  Keeps away food allergies, and it's how we're supposed to eat anyway.

Hm.   I feel like fish.  Maybe if the rain breaks today, after I get the last AFTERDEAD page colored (and maybe the second-to-the-last because it was VERY experimental, and frankly looks like crap, or did last time I saw it), I might go down and get me a greenling to fry tomorrow with bacon oil and Sechzuan pepper.  Yum.

THE MORNING'S WORK

Before I get going on the day's artwork, I need to take advantage of the wood stove's morning flare to do the cooking.

A gallon of sea water makes this much sea-salt (Fleur de Clallam).  It's collected from Clallam Bay, out by the far point in that picture. It's slightly damp, very white, and has a very faint sweetness.  Only enough is made for us, Christmas gifts for a few friends and occasionally to sell.  Up here they call it "Donna's Salt."

To keep from getting my clothes wet, I wear a knee-length sweatshirt dress and flip-flops.  Yes, it's cold, but it's never cold enough to freeze.  Two gallons are collected at a time, one for each hand.

Peanut butter cookies, made with the Day of the Dead skulls that didn't make it.  And the bowl of salt.

FISHING AGAIN

Four years ago, we lost our old cat Spuds.  All fish and seafood coming into this house went to him.  When we lost him after a long fight, to nose cancer, fishing just reminded me painfully of him.

Back on the beach, again, this time asking him to share if he wants any.  I only fish if I'm hungry for fish. Admittedly, like all fishers, the carnivore/omnivore instincts kick in, and I enjoy the fish's struggles on the line.  But if I don't don't think I will want fried fish and bone crackers the next day, I don't fish. 

I have a deal on with the fish: when I catch one, I smash up all of my mussel bait, and throw it to out to my breakfast's brethren.  No, I don't think the fish know about this deal; it just makes me feel better.

Turns out I'm good at hunting and gathering.  If I took up hunting deer, it would be for spikes or, if they ever allow it, does. Because hunting for antlers is just hunting grandpa -- and it's traditionally a practice for war, replacing the urge to kill other humans.  And bucks and bulls are in rut: YUCK.  

If I were hunting for antlers, I'd turn it into a REAL sport: tracking the same buck every year until he dropped his horns, starting when he was a spike, until he dropped his final set as an old man, and letting the tough old guy feed something that will enjoy him, like a mountain lion.  Or somebody who needs a really good, thick hide.  But collecting a life-time's horns without killing, counting a kind of coup, would really demonstrate tracking ability and courage. However:

Now for the real reason for hunting or gathering anything: putting it in our faces.

It's not necessary to fillet greenling.  Just head and cut, scraping out the bloodline with a mussel shell.  Split open.  Rinse well, salt inside, wrap in a towel and put in the 'fridge 'till breakfast time.  Rinse well, pat dry, fry skin-side down, preferably in lard of bacon grease, although any oil will do.  The best spice to sprinkle, lightly, on a greenling is Chinese Prickly Ash, also called Sichuan pepper, available at McPhee's Asian Grocery in Port Angeles, and soon to be available at Sunset West Co-op in Clallam Bay.

Dish, slip out the backbone and slip off the skin and fins.  Place them all back in the pan, to slow-crisp.  They will make the most delectable crunchy bone-crackers.

In the middle of the day's cooking, thought I'd give these a try.  Can't find 'em ANYPLACE out here:

Can't find Calaveras de azúcar.para el Día de los Muertos (November 1)? (Sugar Skulls for the Day Of The Dead) Make 'em! Here's a simple at-home recipe: 

 Beat egg whites into soft peaks, mix with granulated sugar until the consistency of soft sand (add a bit of water if too dry). Form into little skulls by hand; use kitchen utensils to form eyes, nose and teeth. Let dry 24 hours. Decorate with food coloring or frosting. They're a great holiday activity with the kids. Sugar skulls are ornamental, and not meant for consumption. 

These are my first try; only these four survived a dozen attempted.  Do NOT try to cook these; they just fry and stick to the plate!  Be patient and dry them. 

Forming them:  make a ball of sugar in your hand, and then turn it over.  You'll be amazed how little tweaking it takes to make a little bony head.

TOO MANY GOOD THINGS

Been over on Facebook, not posting here as I should.  First of all, today's haul:  a nice mess of Woodland Russalas, found in a park in Port Angeles while walking between busses.  They're simmering here in chicken-stock sauce, with homemade egg noodles, made with eggs from our hens, and green beans.  Took advantage of Terry Gross's latest interview, that was running while the mushrooms were sautéing on the woodstove.  When the dish was ready, I popped some fresh black pepper, a dash of lemon juice, and home-collected sea salt over each helping.  The acid combined with the sweet, hazelnut-like flavor of the mushrooms made the whole melange to die for.  Thanks, Terry!

Billions of gorgeous mushrooms this year; biggest chanterelles we've ever found.  Honeys, white oysters and puff balls.  

Hadn't gone fishing in four years, since we lost Spuds.  At his end, I'd been fishing and gathering seafood only for him, and was missing him too much to go collecting again.  Back to picking up nice little greenling off the beach.  They were only yanking the bait off my hook, until I muttered, "First one grabs it, I stop fishing for today, smash up the rest of the bait and throw it in.  So somebody come help me feed your brethren."  BAM -- fish on.  Smashed up the bait, threw it in, took the one fish home.  Nice greenling, which provided too lovely fillets and a sweet backbone for bone crackers.  

No fishing yesterday; our neighbor brought over a couple pounds of fresh halibut.  Fried up in lard with black pepper and sea salt made of seawater collected from Clallam Bay, boiled in an old pot on the wood stove.  A gallon makes about 3 ounces of Fleur de sel.  Because of its mineral and iodine content, it's entirely cut back on our salt cravings.  It's excellent when used for Live Salt (my term for the fresh grains thrown on a dish at the last moment to spark the flavor).

Built a THIRD chicken coop and it really is a chicken tractor, now.  Easy to move, a lot easier to clean, and more accessible for eggs, while retaining security.

The people we got the hens from stuck us with a skinny gray rooster -- who has grown up into a nice, quiet, masculine silver, who only crows a little at dawn, and all the girls love him.  The neighbors say he doesn't bother them. Nice deep body on him, too -- if he sires chicks, they may be nice for egg-laying.  Dunno; will have to see.  His name is Blue.  The hens are named Red, Black, Splash, and Inky.

We are SO ready for the rains -- and getting back to some real drawing and writing.

I've had to sell my bees.  Hans Barr (not a near relative of my husband) just bought them. 

If you get an error message, just click it a few times, and it will open in YouTube.

Dead Whale

Hiked to 2nd Beach on the Olympic Peninsula yesterday. Resting against a log in the sand, I couldn't stand the pain in my back teeth any more.  Thought it might be that place that needed flossing, was delicately working at it when a ghastly smell floated by.  

At first I thought it was something old stuck in my teeth; you with deep places in your teeth know how it is when you dig out an ancient shred of meat and it's gone bad.  I dug a little more and the smell oozed by again.  Realized it wasn't me; got up and began to look around.  

About ten feet away, a five-foot long black woody-looking mass displayed the remains of baby-whale-size vertebrae.  Might have been what was left of a head.  The crows were happily bouncing about on this bounty.  I stood back, breathing through my mouth, and tried to be respectful; it's  a whale, after all.

Two guys showed up who were camping down the beach.  One of them had a shovel, and they had a very determined look.  When they found the dessicated mass, their attitude was exactly that I'd seen in a guy on the beach viewing a piece of dead whale before:  "How DARE it rot on MY beach!"

What's up with that? This is nature; stuff dies and washes up. Stuff rots.  These two testicles just glowed with a sense of righteous outrage.  Maybe they wanted a mint on their pillows.

As I walked away, I saw them covering it up, and some pretty disturbed crows.  All I could do is laugh.  And laugh.

Smoggy today; literally.  The British Columbia forest fires are combining their smoke with our August fog to provide us with our own version of a London Peculiar.